


Dusty Boxes and Precious Memories

by TheSilverPhoenix



Series: USUK Week 2020 [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Day 5, F/F, History, Nyotalia, USUK Week, america's attic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverPhoenix/pseuds/TheSilverPhoenix
Summary: It’s time for spring cleaning and America is in the midst of purging her attic. She’s doing great, until she finds a box filled with memories far too precious to throw away.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Series: USUK Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816204
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Dusty Boxes and Precious Memories

America’s attic was an absolute mess. It was notoriously hard for her to get rid of things, no matter the emotions tied to it, and that had led to stacks of boxes and clutters of items collecting dust as they sat, unmoving and untouched, over the years. It wasn’t a good thing, she knew, but every time she had attempted to clean it out and finally part with some things, she ended up swirling in memories and emotions, which ultimately just led to her placing the item back in its place.

She wasn’t the only nation who couldn’t get rid of things. England had the same problem - America had seen all of the old swords and outfits and trinkets her girlfriend had collected over the years - but she felt as if most nations only held on to things that reminded them of good things, like when they’d been at the height of their influence or experienced cultural renaissances. America almost felt like she’d kept things from important points in her history, but not necessarily parts that were good for her.

The best example she could think of was the revolutionary musket that leaned against the back most wall, where all the older memories had collected. The musket had been given to her by England, with the promise that she’d teach her how to shoot it. England had never gotten the chance and had, instead, ended up on the other side of that barrel.

America could still remember how painfully young she’d been. How scared and angry and hurt she’d felt at the person she’d  _ trusted _ and how those emotions had burned in her long after England had left. It was almost ironic now, especially since her and England were set to celebrate their eightieth anniversary soon.

Then there was an old Stetson sitting on a pile of boxes, its deep brown color faded with age. She’d bought it on the trail out west, yearning for fresh air and hard, mind numbing work that would drown out the freshly sown pain from the newly ended Civil War. Lincoln had just been assassinated and she couldn’t...couldn’t just stay in the White House. Johnson had just made it seem empty and hollow. He hadn’t been Lincoln. No one could’ve been.

That hat had done her well. It had shaded her from the long, harsh hours of sun while she’d herded cattle and soaked in the sweat of her brow. She hadn’t needed to think about anything else because her task was set in front of her - straight, narrow, and unchanging. Unlike the world of politics she’d run away from. She’d gotten forty years of that solitude before a newly inaugurated Theodore Roosevelt had drug her back to the White House.

There were also less conspicuous things in the attic, like random boxes filled with period clothing. To anyone else it probably looked like she was really into historical reenactments, but most of the clothing she’d kept held some sort of significance.

Her WW2 bomber jacket was hanging on a hook near the door, decorated with an array of colorful patches that marked her service in both theaters of the war. America had replaced it with a NASA flight jacket when the space program had taken off.

Multiple boxes were filled with Victorian clothing. She’d refused to wear skirts back then, but she’d taken to the high collared petticoats that had been popular back then. Though that stent had been brutally interrupted during war times. Then she’d taken to wearing officers’ uniforms, which were also packed away somewhere in the attic. She kept the majority of her uniforms - Revolution, 1812, Mexican, World Wars - but there were a few notable ones missing. America had been too bedridden to participate in the Civil War and her modern one’s were hanging pristinely in her closet downstairs.

Her point was that there weren’t many happy memories in the attic. Some of the items she’d kept may evoke a nostalgic feeling from her, but in the end she’d just feel sad.

That was until she’d found the shoe box.

It had been spring cleaning time and, despite knowing that she probably wouldn’t get rid of anything, America had taken to her attic on a mid-April day. She hadn’t been to the attic in years and she felt like it was time to give it another go.

That’s when she’d seen the shoe box, sitting on top of a small stack of cardboard boxes labelled ‘Textbooks’. The color of the box, like nearly everything else in the attic, had faded and there was a light layer of dust that had collected on the top. America, curious at the appearance of a new box she didn’t remember, had carefully lifted the box lid and was met with hundreds of pictures, stacked neatly in rows from front to back.

More confused than ever, she pulled a small pile of pictures and began to look at them.

The first one was in a grainy black and white, a far cry from the definition and color of modern photography and had her and England standing side-by-side. Both of them, dressed in WW2 era uniforms, had a look of hard concentration on their faces and their attention was taken up by someone to their right. America flipped the picture around and saw 29th August 1943 written in familiar, faded cursive. She smiled. Five days before the Allied landing in Italy. She remembered not being happy with the plan because Eisenhower wanted to land in northern France instead, but she’d gone along with it because everyone else had insisted. At least it hadn’t been a complete failure.

The second picture caused her smile to broaden. Her and England’s first kiss. She didn’t need the writing on the back to tell her when it was taken, but she turned it over anyway. 6th June 1944. D-Day. The pressure had been immense, the effort strenuous, and the loss of life heart wrenching, but they’d managed to punch their way through the German lines. America could remember the stress of waiting, not knowing if their gamble had paid off, not knowing if they’d made a detrimental error or earned a war-winning victory. England had kissed her, in front of all the Allies, when they had learned of their success. And America had kissed her back.

The rest of the pictures were a similar flood of memories. Important moments in her and England’s history.

25th August 1944. The liberation of Paris. Her, England, and France, standing broad smiled in front of the Eiffel Tower as the French flag flew high overhead in the breeze.

10th February 1945. The Yalta Conference. Her, England, Churchill, and Roosevelt all sitting in a square, with what looked like Anya and Stalin in the background. It was probably one of the last pictures she’d been in with Roosevelt before his death. She teared up a little at the sight of it.

6th April 1956. The rise of rock and roll. It was a picture of England. She’d just cut her hair short and she was decked out in a leather jacket, piercings and tattoos. The picture had America swooning because she remembered seeing England like that for the first time and being absolutely _ weak _ .

11th February 1964. The Beatles’ first concert in the US. Her and England, dressed for the concert and standing in a sea of people - women and men alike. America had been so excited to see the Beatles in person and she had practically begged England to hop the pond and see them with her. It was something she’d wanted to share with her.

20th July 1969. It was the first picture in a blurry haze of color, but she knew the moment well. The moon landing. Her with a broad, happy smile on her face as she sat and watched Neil Armstrong take that famous first step. She’d been so giddy. Not because she’d won the space race, but because she’d never seen herself coming this far and she had. And there was so much more space to explore.

16th August 1969. Woodstock. Her, England, and Canada, almost certainly high as hell, dressed in bright, loose clothing while someone to their left strummed a guitar. Now that was a great weekend, an escape from everything.

On and on these memories went, each more current than the last. They depicted single moments of her past - of both of their pasts - where they’d experienced things together. And, even though she knew there were bad times tucked into those years, all she saw was happiness.

26th June 2015. It was the last one. The day the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage. It was her and England, pressed closely together to pose for the camera, with wide smiles on their faces and pride flags hanging over their shoulders.

America stared at the picture, gave it a small smile, and placed it back in the box. Then, she took out her phone, snapped her own photo of the box with the pictures on display, and sent it to the person she knew had left it there.

‘When were you gonna tell me you’d been sneaking things into my attic?’ she texted.

The reply was almost instant.

‘I thought it’d be a good pick-me-up,’ England texted back. ‘And remind you that there are good memories in there too.’

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 for USUK Week- History!
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://silverphoenixwrites.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sil_phoenix), and [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/silverphoenix)!


End file.
